


Orfeo

by Ellynne



Category: Once Upon A Time - Fandom
Genre: Death, F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, anti-captain hook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24975265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellynne/pseuds/Ellynne
Summary: Orfeo, a mercenary and sometimes pirate tells of his time serving under Killian Jones and the mysterious, golden-haired woman who loved the captain until the day it all went wrong.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

Em, that was her name, or the only name I knew her by. Golden-haired and blue-eyed, good with a sword, though you could tell she’d come late to it in life. But, let me tell it properly, from the beginning.

What skill I have in a fight I owe to my father’s training. From the dawn of time, we have always been warriors. The love of the sea, that was my own. No rhyme or reason to it, it simply was. And, so, when my time came to go out into the world, it was a seaman’s life I chose, though chancy as water, that’s what my father said sailors are, and pirates worse than most. 

Does that trouble you? How easily I won to that title, pirate? My people were sell-swords. We fought to protect our families and tribes and those we swore an oath to serve. That is how we count honor. That, and who we sell our swords to.

I first served the Pasha of the Three Cities along the Middle Sea, a respectable sailor and soldier in the great one’s navy. The Pasha demanded tribute from all those who sail his waters, and it was no shame to help him collect it. But, the Pasha’s heir was a greedy man. When he came to the throne, he thought to demand more. Well, that was great ones’ business, and no matter for a common seaman. Besides, the sea routes were the Pasha’s property, were they not? And if a man can get a better price for selling what is his own, there’s no sin in it.

But, the new Pasha thought some reminders of the value of paying him might discourage any haggling. He had us seize a few ships to make his point. The crewmen who had kin with money enough were ransomed, and the rest were sold to the galleys. And, so you see the narrow line between respectability and piracy.

The Pasha, by the way, chose poorly. He picked ships from what he thought was a weaker land. Four years of war followed, proving him wrong, and another held the Triple Throne when it was done. But, that was no matter to me. My contract had been over long before, and I didn’t choose to sign again. A man should know when to cut his losses, honor allowing.

That’s the way of life on the sea. Whenever a ship makes port, there are always a few off in search of a better berth.

It’s a trouble to captain’s who can’t chain men in their holds, like the galleys. Still, there are ways to discourage them from flying free. A sailor who signs for a voyage won’t see a coin if he leaves before journey’s end. 

Pirates are another matter. There’s hanging, sure enough. A known pirate can always be strung up pretty. You’d think that might keep them bound to ship and crew if land’s so chancy. But, it’s captains and their mates who run that risk. The rank and file, if they aren’t taken with their ship, are free men once they’ve hit shore and left the officers behind. Wages are more certain, too. When a ship’s taken, you divvy up the goods. No waiting till a dozen ports later for whatever the captain thinks is fair.

Which is a long way of saying, when I saw _The Jolly Roger_ in port, I knew what she was but wasn’t minded to hold it against her. Now, what I’d heard of the captain himself, that gave me pause. They say he’d betrayed his king. Some said he’d done it at a demon’s bidding, the child-stealer they call Pan. A man of honor—and I consider myself such, no matter what others may say—would think twice of sailing with him.

Yet, I had heard other tales, too. The _Roger_ was a swift ship, magic in her wood and sails that would catch the faintest whisper of a breeze. That was why she still sailed free instead of taken by her enemies, so they said, and not to any great skill of the man who helmed her. 

Not that all tales are worth believing. If you listened to every story told, you’d believe Jones had fought monsters, rescued princesses, and sailed to other worlds, more adventures than a man could hope for if he’d lived a hundred years. I didn’t credit all I heard or even a fraction of it. Though those rumors, especially the last, seem more credible of late.

But, things had changed of late. There was a new first mate, so I’d heard. Skilled and clever, she had a deft mind for snaring their prey and planning their battles, and a tongue like a viper when she spoke her mind. 

That was less likely than Jones traveling worlds. The stories I’d heard painted a shallow, petty man, not one who appreciated outspoken women. Yet, she was that, all that and more.

Do I sound like a love-drunk fool? I was. I had been barely a week on the _Roger_ before I adored her. Before the month was out, she was my goddess. Yes, I was a fool.

If I was, I was not alone. Oh, I was further gone than all the rest, but we all had a touch of that disease. Why not? There is one thing soldiers and pirates and sell-swords all have in common: Our great love for commanders who keep us alive.

We also tell stories about them. Gossip and tale-spinning are the two great pastimes of seamen. The stories I heard about Em! Not least was that everyone wondered about her name. I told you Em was what I called her. It was what we all called her to her face. Some called her other things. Captain’s Lady is the only one I’ll repeat to you. We were seamen, not saints. 

But, even with those . . . call them poetic additions. Even with those, she needed more, deserved more than our poor tongues could give her. I was not immune. As I said, she was my goddess, a woman who could fight and plot and take a ship twice the size of ours without a man lost—Yes, it happened once. Jones was a fool and insisted on attacking when Em said to run. But, she pulled us through it. Not that Jones gave her credit. “Em” was not name enough for her. We made glittering, storied titles for her, embroidering them with our wildest fancies, and bestowed them on her like jewels.

I see your smile. No, we never thought of something simple and small, not for her. Emma? We would have laughed at you for suggesting it. Nothing so insignificant, not for her. We didn’t know the truth, but we would have sworn it couldn’t be _that._

I say we didn’t know. But, that’s the same as to say everyone knew. Everyone had a tale and everyone was sure of it. We all claimed to know for a certainty, though I don’t think there was a man beside the captain who’d been on the ship when she came. Jones had been sailing for years by then, and, as I said, sailors come and go. 

But, ignorance is no bar to certainty. “Ermengarde” was a favorite for her. You laugh. It would have been an odd sounding name in the land of my birth, but all your northern names are. They said it was the name of an empress from long ago. She ruled near the land where you were born, I think. It suited her well with hair as golden as any crown and her hands dripping with gems, though none of them as bright as the jewels that were her eyes.

Good. You laugh again. Didn’t I say I was besotted? But, I wasn’t a complete fool. I was content to worship from afar, and little good it would have done me if I hadn’t. I could be ten times the fool and blind to boot and still see how things stood between her and the captain. 

He was the one who’d given her those rings. Taken from dead men’s hands, so they said—and so I saw more than once.

Yes, royalty suited her. That she was a secret princess who had run away from her birthright for a life of adventure, I could believe that. I _wanted_ to believe that. After all, what is the difference between a pirate captain and a more-or-less honest sell-sword to a woman like that? So, we spin lies to trap ourselves.

That was far from the only tale. Some said she had only served royalty, a maid in the royal palace. Unable to curb her proud heart, she had been thrown out for her pretensions—but not before emptying the princess’ jewels into her own pockets. The gems she kept, her royal legend, even the goldness of her hair, all false.

A few said she was an “Emilia.” There’d been a soldier down to the south, near Sirenissima, said to have betrayed his general—I can tell you the general and his officer were real, whatever the rest of the tale may be. The general had been a mercenary. Not my kinsman, but his tribe was known to us. A great leader in his time, though his end was a foul one. 

The officer had had a wife named Emilia. Some thought Em might be her, escaped from her husband’s shame to win honor for herself. I doubted this one, not that I was ever so foolish as to say. As I said, I had heard the general’s story and from those who knew more of it than any common sailor. Anyone from Sirenissima will tell you that Emilia had died, though whether she was stabbed by her traitor husband when she learned the ugly truth of his crimes or was hung alongside him, even they don’t seem to know.

You read, do you not? A few who knew their letters thought it might be the letter M and were even more creative. “Murderer,” that was their best guess. Somewhere, they said, there was a brand burned into her, marking her as a killer. 

Of course, then they had to guess who she’d killed. They said she’d been a robber, killing hapless souls, the better to empty their purses. Or, no, she’d killed a rich husband for his money. Or was it an old mother for hers? Maybe a sister in a fit of jealousy when she married the man Em loved. One said she’d been a nursemaid, entrusted with a little child who she drugged to keep him silent while her secret lover came to visit till, one day, she’d given the poor thing too much, and he’d never cried again. 

The ones who told the last story said she’d escaped and gone to ply another, older trade in the king’s capitol among the rich and powerful, rising till she became the king’s own mistress. A happy ending with wealth and power—till the day a young man, from the same town where she’d once been a nursemaid, joined the guard and recognized her.

Even then, the king couldn’t kill her. But, he’d branded her with the mark of her crimes and sent her into exile. There would be no second chance if she were ever found in his lands again.

No one called her the captain’s _woman_. His lady, his queen, his good right hand—which was not a joke, not then—but not his _woman_. If any had when she first came aboard, it ended long before I joined. We would have settled anyone who had. Though she could take care of herself. Her sword work had a rough edge—as I said, you could tell she’d come late to it—but she was not unskilled, as more than a few found to their shame. She kept a cool head in a fight, which is half the battle. But, more importantly, they’d seen how she had a mind for tactics and strategy. It wasn’t long till she was the one planning their battles. Fewer men were wounded or died when they followed her advice. We lived by her grace and valued her accordingly.

I say we did, but the captain was another story. Em had tried to convince him we’d do better with more than one ship, but Jones wouldn’t hear of it. She’d argued with him. They didn’t have to split their takings with some other captain. He could have manned any of the ship’s he’d taken with his own men. Faced with two or even three ships attacking at once, their prey would surrender without a fight. It would save lives and increase their take—we could take bigger prey with fewer targets escaping and less treasure lost at the bottom of the sea.

A small fleet of his own. Men would call him “admiral,” not just captain. It might have tempted him but not enough to risk it. He’d served in his king’s navy, once upon a time, before taking the king’s ship for his own and had a great fear of his men learning by example. 

On his ship, he could control his men and enforce his commands. If the men whispered against him, he could hear it. On another ship, he wouldn’t. So, no, not even to become an admiral. Captured ships were sold off in ports that didn’t ask foolish questions. Em, ever the strategist, accepted a lost battle for what it was. She gritted her teeth and planned how just one ship could attack another and survive.

As I said, she was the reason I’d tried my luck on the _Roger_. I say again, good commanders don’t waste their men’s lives. Forgive me if I tough overmuch on that. Tis something, as one of the lives in question, I appreciate. There is also always something to be learned under such commanders, so my father taught me.

And there was gold. Most pirates spend what they get quick enough, the captain being no exception. I heard a tale of him, how part of his prize from a treasure ship was a gold image of the sun—the ship was from the Four Lands where that is the symbol of the royal house. He lost it at cards that very night. Ever after, when the captain (or anyone else) was doing something especially reckless, the crew said he was gambling the sun away before morning. 

But, a careful man may do well for himself. A sober one may do better, though it is not wise to win too much from your shipmates. I wait till making land before any serious gaming. I also let it be known to my shipmates I have promised to introduce my sword to any card sharps I meet. Strangely, few seem eager to make the acquaintance.

The weeks went by. We took four ships while I was with the _Roger_. Once, we passed in site of Tide Island, so-called for its treacherous waters. It seems a good harbor, as many a poor soul has learned to his cost, though safe landings may be made at certain hours. It is also the site of the death of Captain Fly. He earned his name, so tis said, for all the corpses he gave the maggots to feast on. A man of high temper and bloody ways, he pushed his crew too hard one day and they buried him here. But, only up to his neck. They say the water came in slow that day. There’s a strange sound to a man’s screaming when the salt chokes him off then runs away to let him breathe again. His curses could be heard a long time.

Or so it’s said. I claim no personal knowledge of that day. Truly.

But, I pointed out the place to Em and told her the tale. I thought it entertaining enough, but she showed little enough interest. Ah, well.

As I said, we took four ships. In the first battle, I acquitted myself well. In the second, Em gave me command over some of the men—Your pardon, the _captain_ gave me command when he had considered the points Em raised in my favor at great and ponderous length. Not a man of piercing wit, our captain.

By the third, I had proven my leadership and skill. It’s that fourth battle I will speak of. The ship was rich and well-defended, but we had the advantage of her. We drew close, casting our ropes to draw her closer, and poured over the side.

You must know that, in those waters, we wanted to take men alive if we could. The lessons of the Pasha had been well learned, even by poor sailors such as us. There were ransoms to be gained for officers as well as any passengers. Sometimes, even the common crew would be bought free. If not, there were those willing to spend good coin for strong backs.

Not that I mean we sold them to be chained in the galleys. My crimes are not quite so great as you think. Ships on long voyages that may be months at sea have trouble filling their rosters. A man in a pirate’s hold is often glad to put his mark on their lists while we take the commission. Or there’s the navy of the White Cliffs. They send out gangs of their own to impress men into service and are willing to cut a deal with those who do it for them. Still, if other markets fail us, I find more virtue in giving a man to the galleys than the sharks.

But, to give him at all, he must be alive, the price for corpses being precious small. So, it was Em worked to put plans together that would kill as few as needs be.

Ah, you think I wrong her? You think there was more to the tale than this? Perhaps, you’re thinking killing went against the grain with my fair goddess? Well, that’s as may be. I can only tell you she was first to draw when we boarded and I never saw her hold back once the fighting started. I have seen opals, black as the sea on a moonless night. But, worn against the skin, you begin to see the red fire within. She was like that. Deep fires burned within her, and whatever she gave herself to, love or hate, she gave completely.

Which, I must suppose, was how it was with her and the captain. I tell you truly, I saw no other reason for why she followed him except that, having made her choice, she would follow it to the end. Even that, I wondered at. Ah, well, the heart has its reasons, and none of them are to be argued with.

That fourth battle, though, that’s what you must understand. It was the reason I left the Roger.

As I said, Em planned the battle. Have you ever fought a battle at sea? No? Well, I shall try to keep it simple for you. . . .

Ah, I chose my words poorly. Don’t glare so, dear lady. I have a poor and foolish tongue. I only meant I shall not weary you with details that matter little to you—that matter little to anyone but me after all these years.

Suffice it to say they were good fighters, which we had expected and prepared for. We were divided into three groups. I led one. The captain and Em led the others. But, we tried to hide this from our opponents. We wanted them to think we no more than a disorganized mob. Em’s group would lead the charge. Our enemies would see a clumsy rabble rushing to their deaths and—forgive me, it is foolishness, but the world never run short of fools—a woman at their head and think they were nothing. They would charge in while the captain and I closed from the sides.

It worked. Or started to. Our captain was a man of great pride, little right though he had to it. Some poor fool on the boat had pricked it in the past. Killed someone, made a joke at his expense, I never did learn the truth of it or even a good lie. What I can tell you is the captain gave a howl of rage and, yelling curses, forgot the plan and ran after the poor soul. Some of his men ran after him, some tried to stick to the plan, some didn’t know what to do. Em went from pretending to lead a shambles to being in the midst of one. 

Oh, but she rallied. In the middle of a fight, surrounded by the enemy, she began shouting orders and making a new plan while fighting for her life. Did I not tell you she was a wonder? Even now, when I’ve seen that skill turned on me, I am in awe of how she could think on her feet. 

Her new plan worked, too, though it was a near thing. She took wounds, and more were killed on both sides than need have been.

Meanwhile, the captain, with the help of his men, cornered whoever that poor fool was and killed him. Cut off his head, too. Took him long enough, and he’d paid no mind to the rest of us. More of Em’s men would have lived if she hadn’t been trying to guard his back. He saw none of it, just finished his butcher’s work and came back, carrying that head by the hair while it dripped blood over the deck and grinning like schoolboy. It was an old, gray-haired man. 

My father would have beaten me for showing disrespect to an elder even in battle—especially in battle. He would have disowned me for mutilating the dead without cause. Show honor to your fallen enemies and pray they do the same for you when the time comes.

Em was furious. It was the first and only time I saw her angry with the captain. She came storming over, blood dripping from her sword and face, demanding to know what he thought he’d been doing. He laughed, and said it was a matter of honor. It would have been “bad form” to let the fellow get away. Then, he told her to wipe the blood off her face. 

I don’t know if she’d even noticed it before then. She must have. I’ve seen men in the heat of battle take wounds that were their deaths without noting them. But, a wound like that, how could she not know?

She tried to wipe it away. They both realized at the same time, the captain because he was finally looking at her and Em because she could feel the pain and the fresh blood dripping down. Her eyes went wide as she looked at the blood on her sleeve. The captain’s face went pale.

It shouldn’t have taken him so long. Em had been fighting for her life—for all our lives—but what excuse did he have?

There was a woman we’d taken alive—the wife of one of the officers. The captain went to her, drew out his sword and cut away a long strip of her skirt. He threw the cloth at Em. “Cover it up,” he told her. Then, he turned away in disgust.

And she did. My goddess bowed her head and hid her face, ashamed. She didn’t even protest.

There’s not much else to tell. The blow had cut across her face, along the cheek, through the nose, and down by the side of Em’s mouth. We had a sawbones who had a deft hand for stitching. He did what he could, but the scar was gruesome and would never go away. 

There was a bolt of fine silk in the hold, scarlet embroidered with gold. The captain gave it to Em after and told her to stitch up a veil for herself. He tried not to look at her but, when he did, we all saw his disgust.

The captain gave some of the men we’d captured the choice to join us. We needed them after that fight. The rest—I mean the common men, not the officers, the ones still alive, and the passengers—he threw into the sea. 

No, dear lady, I did not argue with him. I did not fight. I saw the reasoning behind it. There weren’t enough of us to keep a guard on them. I told myself it was his word that had been pledged when they surrendered, not mine. I told myself there was nothing I could do.I looked to Em, wondering what she would say. But, she was silent, nursing her wounds. My father . . . I have often wondered what my father would have said about my silence. 

I never had the chance to ask him but, whether he forgave me or cast me from the clan, I would be glad to know.

Our takings were poor. The captain didn’t have enough men he trusted to man both ships, so he set fire to the one we’d taken rather than turn her in for coin. As for the ransom money, it was less than it might have been with so many lost, or so I heard.

I had no interest in finding out. When we made port, I was gone. 

I spoke to Em before leaving. That was when we had passed Tide Island and I told her its tale. I told her, if that didn’t please her, there were islands enough were a man could be left to live in peace. We could put him ashore, alive, unharmed, and with whatever gold he hadn’t gambled or drunk away, if that would ease her conscience. The men would follow her.

She wouldn’t hear of it. She told me to hold my peace or she’d cut out my traitor’s tongue.

And . . . I thought then how the men might follow me. It would be a simple matter. The captain liked his drink. But, even sober, he was no match for me.

For a brief moment, I saw what the future could be, a ship of my own with Em to plan battles and fight beside me.

Some dreams are lies. 

I knew how it would really be. Em, with her heart of fire, would fight for him, though she’d seen me in battle often enough to know by then to know how it would end. If I struck before she could stop me, she would still avenge him or die trying.

The crew would follow me if I killed the captain. They wouldn’t if I killed Em.

Was that all, you ask? Did I have another reason for walking away? Does it matter? She’d chosen a man who wounded her more deeply than any sword could. Who would go on wounding her, alive or dead, again and again. And I couldn’t stop it. 

I left. I didn’t look back. She didn’t come after me.

Enough. We can speak of the rest some other time, of the last time I saw her and all the rest of it. Now, let an old soldier remember his wounds in peace.


	2. After the Battle

I took work as a privateer after leaving Jones.

No, lady, not a pirate. I found I had lost my taste for piracy. As privateers, we sailed under letters of mark for those needing more ships for their cause and willing to hire them. But, we kept the laws of war. We preserved those who surrendered and expected to be preserved in turn, like any other prisoner. We could give our sworn word in a court of law and have it considered good. Above all else, we kept our bargains.

So it was when I sailed under de le Pierre, the admiral of a small fleet sailing out of the City of the Golden Lion. I did well in his service and was given command of one of his ships. De le Pierre was not Jones, to fear the men serving under him.

Still, when the Pale Lords made war on the Thirteen, they thought as you did, that there was no difference.

Ah, your pardon. There is no reason you should know these names. They are all from long ago and far away. The Pale Lords were masters of the northern seas. They had ruled the Thirteen for over a hundred years, lost them, and sought to take them back. The City of the Golden Lion was a great port to the south, more or less under the rule of the Thirteen. Though, I will tell you, the Thirteen never quite saw eye to eye with the Lion on certain matters, such as taxes and smuggling. The masters of the city and men like de le Pierre and agreed to disagree with over these matters. After all, the Thirteen would lose no sleep for what they didn’t know, would they? 

The Pale Lords mistook these differences of opinion for rebellion. They also thought they had only to offer de le Pierre gold to own his loyalty.

De le Pierre did not disabuse their messengers of these notions. He smiled, spoke them fair, and sent word to Old Carya the moment they were gone of the planned invasion.

Old Carya was a commander in the Thirteen’s army. I could tell you stories of him you would not believe. In truth, lady, there are those who saw them with their own eyes who did not believe. He was something out of legend. In the Thirteen’s first war with the Pale Lords, the one where they won their freedom, Carya’s brothers were killed and their soldiers left his mother to starve. He had been only a child at the time. Now he was a man, he fought like a lion against them. 

De le Pierre put all his ships and men under Carya’s command. We sent word to every ally we had to come and stand with us. The lords of the city sent out warnings to all the surrounding people, summoning those who could fight. The rest either came to the city for shelter or fled to hide in the bayous and swamps. 

A soldier of the Pale Lords, one who fought in the north in that first war, had spent months trailing a general through the swamps. He later asked, if the Thirteen were their enemies, why they didn’t take revenge on them by leaving them in that accursed country. The southern swamps are larger and much worse. There are lizards like wingless dragons. They glide through water instead of air, seizing grown men their teeth and dragging them beneath the murk to drown.

Old Carya bought us time to prepare with a lightning strike on the Pale Lords’ forces. The commander decided only a mad man would lead such an assault if he did not have troops in plenty to spare—true enough as it happened, though not the way he meant it. The Pale Lords waited for reinforcements, buying us time to fortify the city. We dug a deep ditch around the city, piling the dirt up as walls and letting the ditch fill with water. Between the river and the swamps, that part took care of itself, the only thing in the war that did.

I have fought in many battles, before and since, but I will always remember that day, how we waited in the morning silence while the mist still hung about the trees beyond. Old Carya had bought us time, but at the cost of facing an even greater army. We were outnumbered, and many on our side had no training, no experience. They were shopkeepers and dockyard workers, many who had never held a blade before in their lives.

The Pale Lords knew this. They also despised the Thirteen. A land of peasants, they called them. They thought they had only to wave their swords to see us cower like mice. They did not understand that these were men fighting for their homes and families. They also didn’t know Old Carya. He knew the country, he knew battle, and he knew how to inspire his men to follow him.

We took wounds, but they took more. The battle was ours in the end. 

One of the injured was my cabin boy, a lad named Biancio. He shouldn’t have been in the fighting at all. I had sent him to guard the Daughters of the Little Bear, a holy order in the city. They ran schools and cared for orphans. It was my hope that, if the battle went against us, the Pale Lords would show some mercy there. If not, well, there are worse deaths than dying protecting the helpless. 

Instead, he made his way to the front. He was in a bad way for time. Fool boy tried to hide he’d been injured. He didn’t even tell us he’d been in the fighting at all, just wrapped a rag around his wound and went on as if nothing had happened. 

And I didn’t notice. I could tell you the aftermath is sometimes worse than the fighting itself even when you win. It’s true enough, but that’s no excuse. As it was, it wasn’t till Biancio collapsed, burning with fever, that I knew what happened.

De le Pierre summoned a healer he knew, one of some renown. The admiral would have born the expense of it, too, had I not insisted on paying. The boy was in my service, and it had been my duty to keep him safe or, failing that, to see him tended before the wounds went bad.

The healer summoned an apothecary and, between the two of them, Biancio’s life was saved, as well as his leg, though it was a near thing. The boy needed a crutch for some time after, and it was uncertain if he would ever walk without it. De le Pierre, though he had accepted my right to pay for Biancio’s treatment, insisted on helping the boy find work. Biancio knew his letters, and de le Pierre found him a place apprenticed among his clerks.

Oh, yes, de le Pierre was a great man of business. It wasn’t just his ships that made him rich. He sold his cargoes at a great profit. He did a great deal of smuggling as well. That last was considered quite respectable in the city. De le Pierre had notices printed and distributed throughout the town when he held an auction, and all of the most respectable folk of the city came. He also arranged sales or brokered deals for others in the trade. He also had arrangements with many customers of long standing. The apothecary who helped treat Biancio was one of these. The City of the Golden Lion was a great hub of trade but, even there, some goods are hard to come by. De le Pierre had supplied him with many a rare herb and medicine over the years.

In truth, the old man had offered to treat Biancio for nothing more than gratitude. But, as I said, the debt was mine.

Well, the war was over, and the Pale Lords gone. Old Carya stayed a while, putting things back in order, and proved somewhat harder to get along with in peacetime than in war. As I said, others in the Thirteen did not quite appreciate the Golden City’s way of doing things. But, in the end, matters settled down and Carya returned to his home still riding a wave of good will, the greatest hero of the war. There are still songs sung in his honor.

Meanwhile, the Golden Lion got on with life. With the Pale Lords gone, there was less privateering to be done, but smuggling was as profitable as ever, now Carya wasn’t there to look over our shoulders. 

Forgive me if I am long in the telling. These are things I must explain, the war, the city, and the treasures that passed through it. You would not believe some of the wonders to be found there. Once, during festival, I saw a woman—a normal woman, not a witch or noble—wearing a crown made of ice teeth with fire gems at her throat. 

It is also, you must understand, a haunted land. The city is old and you will find strange things living—if living is the word—in the swamps and bayous. If what I hear of you is true, lady, you have seen your share of nightmares and wonders. But, I doubt you have ever seen anything quite like that land.

There was a pair of rings de le Pierre had, locked away at his place of business with a few other bits of trumpery—such things were pawned off on him from time to time, and he was generally able to turn them to good account, sooner or late. But, these rings had sat there for a while, so I was told. The story behind them, if there was any truth in it, was a dark one. Not that the rings were cursed. Or not exactly. De le Pierre was no man’s fool.

There was a family, the Bellantines. An old family, once rich and still greatly respected. There were three daughters left. An aunt had come to live with them, a cruel woman by all accounts. All of their servants, those who had any place left to go, fled. But, there was a maid servant the aunt had, a young girl she had brought with her from across the sea, from the Isle of Gloriana. The people there have a name as sorcerers and witches. Strange things were said to happen out in the swamps where the Bellantines’ crumbling mansion still stood. And, the maid, Joan, she was heard questioning more than one of those who had had some dealings with those who knew the ways of the Isle. One of them—an old man, Jacques he was called, it may or may not have been his name, no one living knew for certain—met with her on moonless nights. Till, one morning, he was found dead. A snake had bitten him. 

Well, such things happen. There are many poisonous snakes in the world, and the swamps had more than their full share of them.

The aunt, Celia her name was, vanished first. Then, the eldest sister, and then the second. The third one, Elizabeth, came running to the city gates one night as though her soul depended on it, which perhaps it did. This was peacetime, you see, the last night of festival, and the gates were kept open. She ran till she reached the shrine of the Little Bear at the heart of the old town, though she would not tell her tale till the sun was rising in the east. 

Then, she told everyone of the dark magic that had been done in that house. It was Celia, the aunt, who had done it. She had changed herself into a hideous thing, not dead, and not alive. She killed others—whether she needed their deaths to go on or simply enjoyed it, I cannot say. She had killed the elder sisters, one by one, and travelers caught late out in the swamps. She had, so Elizabeth swore, the power to make their corpses move and obey her while the night lasted. Celia herself had to hide away from the light of day, but nothing in the house was safe from her.

It was Joan who saved Elizabeth. Joan, who knew something of the Isle’s ways and learned more. During the day, Celia expected the girl to wait on her hand and foot but, during the night she had her dead. Joan was free then to do as she would, though Celia warned her what she would do if the girl did not return by dawn.

Jacques had helped young Joan, some magic Elizabeth had not fully understood. Celia, or what Celia had become, claimed she was the one who killed him, revenge for putting his nose in her business. But, from what I know now, there may have been more to the story. Magic comes with a price. I think the price to stop Celia was high, but Jacques chose to pay his part of it.

Joan had helped Elizabeth escape at the end and told her not to stop till she reached holy ground and not to speak of Celia and her dark sorcery till the sun had risen.

Some brave souls had gone back to the Bellantines’ estate. Joan was dead, though she had taken the thing that was once Celia Bellantine with her. The old woman’s body was not so changed, in the end, they could not identify her except by the rings on her hands.

Elizabeth sold the house and everything in it. I heard she made a good life for herself, far away, in less shadowed lands.

As you might expect, much of what she sold was looked over carefully by those who knew their business. Some that might have been tools of Celia’s work were burned. Others, after suitable cleansing and examination, were put to better uses—or so it is to be hoped, eh?

Not everything was Celia’s. Old families accumulate strange odds and ends. There were known heirlooms. Some things were thought to be Joan’s, talismans, perhaps, that Jacques had given her—Elizabeth insisted that Joan be buried with the greatest of these and gave her an honored place in her family crypt, the name _Bellantine_ set in gold in the white marble, which caused quite a few tongues to wag. But, there were other things that proved . . . I will not say harmless. Benign. They were benign enough.

The rings were said to be part of this hoard. Celia’s, Joan’s, who knew? There were four symbols etched inside the bands. They stood for _Love, Blood, Life,_ and _Binding._

The story got about that there was a love spell on them. Though the greater wizards and witches will tell you there is no such thing, there are always those willing to believe. There were others who said the magic on them was more subtle, a spell that would always lead true lovers back to each other. 

What I can tell you is that the rings had been through the hands of several owners, some lovers, some not, by the time they came to de le Pierre—and had had no provable effect on any of them. So, there they sat, unsold, collecting dust.

But, one day, a certain man came to see de le Pierre about them. He used several names that I knew of. In the city, he was most often known as the dealer. He wanted those rings but he wanted de le Pierre’s help in brokering a trade for them. The Dealer was close-mouthed about it all, but it seemed the usual story, a fool believing a child’s story about true love and enchantment would trade a treasure for them.

At the time, I did not know what the true treasure was. Oh, I had been given instructions. A small box of gold and mother of pearl, so I was told, would be brought in. Inside would be a pendent of some sort—I was given a description, but it didn’t matter if the pendent matched or not. The real treasure was hidden in a false bottom in the box. There, I was told I would find something like a misshapen pearl. I was to put a small piece of obsidian against the pearl and, if it was the one the Dealer wanted, the stone would turn clear. But, as to what it was? There are questions a man lives longer by not asking.

Yes, odd work for a mercenary. But, peace had broken out all over, and I had been on land a while. There was a great deal of work still needing to be done. De le Pierre trusted me. He’d found me level-headed in the past. I was also, as you see, a large man with a big sword, not the sort people make trouble for.

That is how I happened to be there when Em came in.

The Roger had steered clear of the Golden City while the war lasted. Jones was not one of those who came when our call went out for help. But, with peace restored and Carya gone, he found his way to our ports.

The Golden Lion may not have held with the north’s laws, but they were not lawless. It was just that they had their own way of doing things. A stranger who did not know the city or its ways and who had not been a friend to them when friends were badly needed was better off dealing with a middleman than trying to sell a cargo directly.

Em, Jones, and a few of his men came in. Another man of de le Pierre’s was doing the haggling but, as I was still waiting for the Dealer’s friend, I was asked to sit in. A large man with a sword. Only a fool would try to rob de le Pierre’s people in the heart of the city, a fool or a desperate soul. But, Jones, as I’ve said, was a fool.

I knew her. How could I not know her? Though her scar and most of her face were hidden behind a dun colored veil, it would take more than that to hide Em from me. But, she had changed. I last saw her, she was a vivid thing, all scarlet and gold. Looking for adventure and ready to fight any who came her way. Now, she was faded. Her veil, her clothes, everything seemed old and worn. Even her hair. It had been like sunlight before, bright and glorious. Now, it was lifeless and pale, pulled back in a loose bun. I saw gray at her temples and along the roots.

She still had ten times Jones’ wits. She negotiated well for the cargo. Jones fidgeted like a bored child and rolled his eyes when Em took her time wearing her opponent down. I half expected him to throw himself on the floor and cry and scream like an infant till he was given what he wanted. He looked as though he were considering it. 

Despite that, Em drove a good bargain. When they were done and the first payment was handed over—the rest would be settled when the cargo was sold—Jones grabbed the gold before Em could touch it, gave her a disgusted look, and left, cronies trailing behind him. He didn’t even shake the broker’s hand before going, the way people do after a bargain. 

The broker’s lips thinned, but nothing was said. He handed the cargo listing to Biancio to make copies of while he made arrangements for it. I stayed behind.

It had been galling to see. Jones treated Em like a servant, an incompetent one, when she was the reason he had money in his hand—gold that would all be wasted in taverns and gambling dens by morning. It must have shamed her. Jones hadn’t known me if he even saw me. But, she had. She did not meet my eyes when she saw me looking at her, not till he was gone.

Then, she cleared her throat and seemed to search for something to say. After a moment, she said, “There are supplies we need. Be honest with me, Orfeo, should I try in the town or would I be better off negotiating with de le Pierre?”

She said it as if we had only parted an hour ago, as if we had sailed into port together and were seeing to our ship and crew. I replied the same way, a comrade in arms thinking it over. “De le Pierre will take a cut of any deal he makes for you.”

“But, he won’t gouge us? Or refuse to deal with a pirate crew?”

“They don’t care here if you’re a pirate, Em, not if you haven’t robbed them.” _They._ I didn’t even notice that I said it. The city folk were _they_ and the crew—or Em and I—were _us._

But, I think Em noticed and knew better. She said, “They care that we weren’t here. During the battle.”

I think I knew then. I didn’t want to, but there was no _us_ , not anymore. “Can you blame them? The city needed every hand it could get, delaying the Pale Lords, setting up our defenses. They-- _we_ could have used any help you gave us.”

“What help? I heard how you slaughtered the Pale Lords. You didn’t even have any casualties, not worth speaking of.”

Biancio, working at his desk, paused. I think the lad paled, though the light was such I couldn’t be sure.

I did not look away from Em. “Because we were ready,” I told her. “Because they were convinced to gather their forces while we were moving a river outside the city walls. Because we finished in time and because Old Carya plots like a demon. I’ve been in many battles, Em, and I didn’t count on surviving this one.”

“So, we should have been there to die alongside you? Jones wouldn’t come and I didn’t ask him to. It wasn’t our fight.”

“Did I say it was? You asked what the people think, and I told you. Deal with de le Pierre. He’ll be fair with you.” 

She nodded and pulled a roll of paper out of her sleeve. “I have a list supplies we need. Can de le Pierre get them for us?”

I called Biancio over. I saw Em’s eyes widen as he put down his pen, got his crutch, and came over. I could not quite read her expression. “Biancio, the lady has a list of supplies needed for the _Roger._ Can you get one of the other clerks run up an estimate of what that will cost her?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Biancio,” Em said. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen, my lady.”

“So old? I had a son—” she stopped, swallowing back whatever she was going to say. “Were you in the fighting?”

“Yes, my lady.”

She gestured to his leg. “Those were wounds, then, honorably got?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Your family, your kin, they must be proud of you.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Biancio took the list and made a hasty exit. He’d reddened slightly under her gaze. Even faded, Em had that effect on young men.

“A son?” I asked. It was the first I’d heard of him.

“He’d be about that age. I lost him,” she said. She shook her head. “War cost me enough already. And this battle wasn’t ours. Don’t hold it against me that I didn’t lose more.” She looked away. “I’m in need of an apothecary,” she said, changing the subject. “A reliable one. I need a mixture of sunroot.”

Sunroot is used in dyes, especially for hair. Em may not have expected me to know that. But, it brought a good price de le Pierre dealt in it from time to time. I mentioned the apothecary who had helped save Biancio’s life and gave her directions to his store. “He’s a good man,” I told her. “Very skilled. And expensive. But, tell him I sent you. If he can’t make what you need, he’ll know someone who can.”

She nodded. There was a look in her eye, one I knew well. It’s the look you see in every sellsword’s eyes while we are considering a contract, especially one where the money’s good but we know it isn’t worth it.

I thought it was me she thought of with that look. I thought she was about to ask me to—to—I don’t know. To save her from Jones. To tell me she had been wrong when she turned down my offer of mutiny all those years ago. To say Jones could go hang, but she wasn’t going back to him.

Instead, she pulled out something else from her satchel, a box made of gold and mother-of-pearl. “I have something else to trade,” she said.

“No.”

“You know what this is for, then?”

“Em, don’t. The rings are trash. They never—”

“I know the secret of them,” Em said. “I’ve met the price and I’ll have them.”

“You think Jones loves anything but himself? You think he even can?”

“The rings, Orfeo.”

I took the box and examined it. There was the pendant, exactly as I had been told it would be, and, under the false bottom, as I had also been told was the pearl-like gem-which-was-not-a-gem.

Biancio came back. He had a list of prices. Em agreed to the standard terms, the money to be taken out of what the _Roger_ was still owed on its cargo, once the rest was unloaded. I sent Biancio to get the rings—They might have been little more than trumpery, but it was a sign of de le Pierre’s respect for the boy that he was entrusted with the keys to them. Biancio brought them back, and the deal was made.

“Em—”

“It’s done, Orfeo.” That was the end of it, as far as she was concerned. Or she meant it to be.

“If you change your mind,” I promised her quietly, “Or if you need me for any other reason, send word here. I’ll come.” I gave Biancio a sharp look so he would know I was deadly serious and that he should treat her well if she returned. The boy straightened like a soldier receiving his orders and nodded. I didn’t doubt he would do just as he was told. Em could show up at the doors at any hour, and he would guard her here while sending for me.

Yes, lady, I was a fool. You have no idea how great a fool I was.

**Author's Note:**

> Orfeo's name is a form of Orpheus, so there is some significance to his walking away from Em without looking back. Sort of a twist on the myth that he's able to walk away from the woman he thinks he's in love with.


End file.
